by H. Y. Hanna
“She was very cagey but I got the impression that there had been something—something to do with the Art School. I’m going there tomorrow to speak to their tutor.”
I wished I could be a fly on the wall at that interview. But Devlin had already told me far more than he should have. Besides, I hadn’t exactly returned the favour in kind. There was still something I was keeping from him. I thought back to that conversation I had overhead in the garden and felt a stab of guilt for not telling Devlin about it. But was it really important? What if it was a red herring? Devlin might have been keeping an eye on Jon, but Cassie’s boyfriend wasn’t a strong suspect yet. If I told Devlin about that conversation, that could all change.
I thought of the earlier scene with Cassie and how upset she had been and I squirmed. She would never forgive me if I turned the focus of the investigation on Jon, especially because of something as flimsy as an overheard conversation where I thought one of the voices might be Jon’s…
“Gemma?”
I blinked and looked up.
Devlin was looking at me, his blue eyes sharp. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I evaded his question. “Um… what about Sarah’s boyfriends?”
“I asked Mrs Waltham about that last night, but unfortunately she doesn’t seem to know much about Sarah’s personal life. They weren’t close, I gathered. And as far as I can tell, Sarah didn’t have any close female friends she confided in.”
I got the feeling that Sarah Waltham was quite a lonely character, in spite of the glamourous image and lifestyle.
“So… it’s really down to the toxicologist’s report now, huh?” I said. “Do you think you might get the results tonight?”
Devlin smiled. “You haven’t changed, Gemma—still as impatient as ever. It’s Sunday today and this isn’t the only case that the toxicologist is working on. I think I’ll be lucky to get the results tomorrow, maybe even the day after.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry—it might take a bit longer, but we’ll get there.”
I looked at him speculatively. The Devlin O’Connor I used to know would have been even more impatient than me. His impetuosity had been one of the things I had found most attractive about him at nineteen—it had seemed so different and so exciting, compared to the constraints of my inhibited upbringing. Now, Devlin was older and… well, maybe not so much “wiser” as more controlled. It wasn’t that he had lost that burning energy and drive, rather that he seemed to have learned to channel it into more effective directions.
“By the way, Gemma…” Devlin said casually. “I was wondering… would you be free tonight?”
“Tonight?” I looked at him in surprise.
“Yes, I thought… if you’re free… we could go out for a pint, maybe even a bite to eat…”
He said it in an offhand tone, as if he didn’t really care what my answer would be, but I saw the flash of disappointment in his blue eyes when I said regretfully, “I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve… I’ve already got plans for this evening.”
“Some other time then,” said Devlin lightly.
He gave me a nod, then turned and left before I could say anything else. I stared at his retreating back. What was that about? Had Devlin O’Connor just tried to ask me out on a date?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Darling, dinner’s slightly delayed this evening. I need to pop across to Mrs Waltham first,” my mother said.
I paused on my way out of the kitchen. “Are you going next door?”
“Well, I just thought it would be nice to take her something.” She indicated the soup tureen on the kitchen counter. “I made extra leek and potato soup this evening.”
“Oh, great idea!” I said, coming over quickly and picking up the tureen. “I’ll come with you! Help you carry this across.”
My mother looked slightly surprised at my enthusiasm for neighbourly relations, but made no comment as she led the way out of the house. She called to my father to let him know where we were going and we heard a vague reply from his study.
“England have lost to Australia in the Ashes,” said my mother in an undertone. “Your father hasn’t been taking it very well.”
My father was a semi-retired Oxford professor who had two passions in life: his textbooks and cricket. My mother and I ranked a poor third. Whilst my mother had been disappointed that I hadn’t done anything “worthwhile” with my Oxford education or married and produced grandchildren, I think my father’s biggest disappointment was that I hadn’t been of the right gender to qualify for the English cricket team.
Mrs Waltham opened the door on our second ring and ushered us into the house. It was an enormous Victorian townhouse, with large bay windows, ornate panelling, and a sweeping staircase that dominated the front hall.
“Thank you so much, Mrs Rose—this is very kind of you,” said Mrs Waltham, taking the tureen of hot soup. “Would you like a drink? Or some tea perhaps?”
“Oh, we weren’t thinking of staying—” my mother started to say but I interrupted hurriedly.
“Tea would be lovely, Mrs Waltham.”
My mother looked at me in astonishment but, to my relief, she didn’t object. I followed Mrs Waltham triumphantly into the drawing room. I wanted to pump her for information about her daughter and this was a rare opportunity to speak to her without arousing suspicion.
I settled on a beautiful antique chaise longue and looked around me. The place reeked of the kind of opulent elegance that only a lot of money could buy, although, once again, Mrs Waltham looked slightly incongruous in the sumptuous setting, despite her designer outfit and perfect salon hair.
She brought in a tea service of Earl Grey accompanied by a plate of delicate madeleines and conversation tiptoed around desultory topics. With the typical British distaste for any mention of “unpleasantness”, my mother was determinedly avoiding the subject of Sarah’s death. I sat impatiently through a discussion of the weather, the best way to plant an herb garden, and the Moscow City Ballet coming to perform at the Oxford Playhouse soon—then at the first lull in the conversation, I jumped in quickly and said:
“I just wanted to say again how sorry I am about Sarah, Mrs Waltham.”
“Gemma!” My mother looked at me reproachfully.
“Thank you,” said Mrs Waltham in a subdued voice. “I still can’t really believe that she’s gone.”
“Did Sarah have any boyfriends?” I asked, ignoring my mother spluttering in horror next to me. “I was just wondering if anyone might have informed them…”
“Oh… oh, yes, you’re right…” Mrs Waltham said vaguely. “To be honest with you, I don’t really know. As I said, Sarah and I weren’t close and she rarely discussed her personal life with me. I have seen her go out a few times, of course, with various young men…”
“Anyone in particular recently?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. At least not in Oxford.”
I looked at her sharply. “You mean she might have been seeing someone somewhere else?”
She hesitated. “Well… I could be wrong but Sarah was going up to London quite a fair bit a couple of months ago. She never came out and said anything, but I got the impression that there might have been a man involved.” Mrs Waltham gave an embarrassed laugh. “I almost wondered if she was having some kind of a fling, maybe with a married man or something… She seemed very secretive about the whole thing, which is not normally like her. She’s usually very… well… boastful about her conquests.” She gave another awkward laugh, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible. It seems wrong to speak ill of her now that she’s dead…”
“Yes, well, we don’t have to speak of her at all,” my mother said hurriedly. “I’m sure you must find it most upsetting to talk about Sarah—”
“No, that’s all right,” said Mrs Waltham with a sad smile. “I need to face reality sometime. Can’t keep burying my head in the sand forever.” She sighed. “I still haven’t even gone through her bedroom. The poli
ce have searched it but I haven’t been able to bring myself to go in. I suppose I really ought to sort through Sarah’s things and give some away to charity… She has—had—so much stuff and it’s all still in very good condition.” She gave that embarrassed laugh again. “Being an only child, and with David having had her so late in life, I’m afraid Sarah was rather spoiled.”
I leaned forwards. “Did Sarah mention anything bothering her lately? Anything she was worried about or someone she might have been having trouble with?”
“The police asked me that,” Mrs Waltham said. “No, I don’t remember anything. But of course… Sarah didn’t confide in me much. She wasn’t my daughter, you know. She was my stepdaughter. And we didn’t really get on.” She gave a rueful smile. “It sounds like such a cliché, but I suppose she resented me for taking her mother’s place.”
“Was Mr Waltham divorced from his first wife then?” asked my mother, her curiosity overcoming her reticence.
“Oh, no… his first wife passed away. She had cancer—leukaemia—and she died earlier this year.”
“Oh, dear! I’m very sorry to hear that,” my mother murmured.
I could see my mother calculating in her head and wondering at Mr Waltham’s quick re-marriage so soon after his first wife’s death. Perhaps the present Mrs Waltham picked up on my mother’s thoughts, because she added hastily:
“Sarah’s mother had been bedridden and required at-home nursing care for several months leading up to her death. I was her nurse actually… It was very hard on David and… and after her death, I suppose, I was able to give him some comfort in his time of grief. We grew close…”
I suppressed a smile at the expression on my mother’s face, which was torn between polite interest and horrified disapproval at the speed with which the first wife had been replaced. I realised now why Mrs Waltham had always seemed slightly out of place in her luxurious surroundings. Perhaps there was a kind of natural arrogance which was difficult to acquire if you weren’t born into privilege and had grown up taking it for granted.
I also thought I could understand Sarah’s contempt and resentment towards this drab little woman who had replaced her mother so quickly. It might not have been so bad if the second Mrs Waltham had come from upper-class circles but her previous position as the family nurse must have really got up Sarah’s snobby nose.
Mrs Waltham was speaking again now, saying sadly, “I did really try with Sarah, but I don’t think she ever accepted me as family. In fact, she fought me on everything…” She glanced sideways at us and said ruefully, “I know you’re too polite to mention it but I’m sure you’ve heard our arguments. I think half the street used to be able to hear Sarah screaming at me.”
My mother shifted uncomfortably. “Oh no, one hardly hears anything through the walls, you know,” she lied glibly. “And I’m sure one is apt to forget oneself in the heat of the moment.”
“Yes, I think back on some of the things I said and I feel terribly guilty…” Mrs Waltham’s bottom lip quivered.
“What beautiful roses!” my mother said brightly, indicating the vase of soft pink blooms on the coffee table in front of us. “Are these from your garden? And you seem to have managed to keep the aphids off. How do you manage that, may I ask? All the pesticides I’ve tried haven’t been very effective.”
“I don’t find any of the store-bought pesticides that good,” said Mrs Waltham, allowing herself to be distracted. “I found a special aphid spray that I can only order online—it follows an old-fashioned formulation—but it works a treat.”
“Oh! Isn’t online shopping marvellous?” my mother cried, delighted to hop on her new favourite topic. “I have found the most wonderful things that I would never have seen in the stores! And so easy to do from the comfort of your home, without having to traipse about the shops… I’ve even started ordering our weekly grocery shopping online from the Sainsbury’s website. Of course, you still have to pick up a few things from M&S but it’s really so convenient.”
“Well, I can give you the website that I ordered the aphid spray from, if you like,” Mrs Waltham offered.
My mother beamed. “That would be lovely, dear. And I must get your advice on the best time to do the winter prune. My friend, Dorothy Clarke, says she does hers in late autumn but I think…”
I sat back in frustration. I could see that I was not going to get much further questioning Mrs Waltham with my mother here. Then a thought occurred to me. If I couldn’t ask, maybe I could see for myself.
I sat up again. “Mrs Waltham—may I use your bathroom?”
“Oh, certainly,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go upstairs, though—the downstairs loo isn’t flushing very well. I’ve called the plumber but you know what they’re like…”
“Oh yes, absolutely dreadful, these tradesmen,” my mother agreed.
I left them exchanging war stories about slipshod builders and lazy electricians, and went out to the front hallway. To be honest, I could have kissed the plumber for his slack attitude. It gave me the perfect pretext to snoop around upstairs. I ran lightly up the sweeping staircase, finding myself in a wide hallway at the top. The bathroom was the first door on my right. I stepped inside, turned on the cold tap, and shut the door again. Then, moving as quietly as I could, I crept down the hallway.
I opened every door I passed, peering into each room. I struck gold with the fourth door—it opened onto a bedroom decorated in frothy pink. Remembering Sarah’s bright fuchsia dress at the gallery party, I was willing to bet that this was her bedroom, and this was confirmed by the framed photo of the smiling girl on the dresser. She obviously had a penchant for the rosy hue—almost everything in the room was in various shades of pink. I stepped inside, shut the door quietly behind me, and surveyed the room, my heart sinking in dismay.
Clothes were strewn across every surface, across the bed and chairs and spilling out of the drawers and cupboards. The dressing table by the window was cluttered with expensive perfumes, lotions, creams, and make-up, as well as hair accessories, belts, scarves, jewellery, and other trinkets. A door on the other side of the bed led into an en suite bathroom, which housed an even more bewildering array of shampoos, creams, lotions, and fragrances.
My God, the girl could have opened her own luxury cosmetics store! I paused by the bathroom vanity and picked up the bottle closest to me. It was a luxury French brand I recognised: L’Occagnes—they had a store in central Oxford. This was a shower gel and there was an accompanying body butter in a large jar next to it, along with sixteen other bottles and tubes and jars lined up along the vanity counter. Like most of the other bottles, this one looked like it had been opened and used just once, and then discarded—like someone taking the first bite of an apple and tossing it aside.
I felt a wave of distaste. As someone who had recently had a big income cut, I had a belated appreciation for all the luxury cosmetics I used to take for granted when I had been on a high-flying corporate salary in Sydney. I shook my head, disgusted at Sarah’s wastefulness. Much as I might have disagreed with Cassie’s rose-tinted praise of Jon, I had to admit that her assessment of Sarah Waltham was spot on. The girl really was a spoilt princess.
I put the bottle down and headed back out into the room, looking around in frustration. There was no time to sift through all the clutter in here properly—I had to try and search for something specific. But what? A mention of a boyfriend? Any connection to Jon Kelsey, I thought. Maybe a photo of him with a message scrawled across the back? Or a love letter? Okay, so that was wishful thinking. In this day and age, the photo and note were more likely to be in Sarah’s phone, which had been confiscated by the police. Still, you never knew if people might prefer the more old-fashioned, romantic way…
I started to move across to her dressing table when I heard a voice calling from downstairs:
“Gemma? Are you all right?”
Oh bugger!
I ran across the bedroom and opened the door a crack, pee
ring out into the hallway. I could hear the tap still running in the bathroom and nobody else was upstairs. It sounded like Mrs Waltham was standing at the bottom of the staircase. Hopefully she might hear the running water and assume I was still occupied.
But I wasn’t taking any more chances. Quietly I stepped out into the hallway and shut Sarah’s bedroom door soundlessly behind me, then I tiptoed across the plush carpet to the bathroom. I went in, flushed the toilet, washed my hands and turned off the tap, then made my way sedately back downstairs.
“Gemma! We were wondering what had happened to you…” said my mother, rising as I entered the living room. “We must get back. We mustn’t keep Mrs Waltham any longer—and your father will be wondering where his dinner is.”
“Have you got yourselves a cat, by the way?” said Mrs Waltham as she followed us out into the foyer. “I think I saw you from our upstairs windows, Gemma—you were in your garden with a little cat on a leash? I never realised that you could walk a cat like a dog.”
“You can’t, really,” I said with a wry smile. “But it’s a compromise to allow Muesli some fresh air and exercise while keeping her safe. Yes, I adopted her recently; she used to live in one of the Cotswolds villages, so she’s not used to traffic. Besides, she’s so naughty, I’m a bit nervous about what she might get up to if she was allowed to come and go as she pleased.”
“Perhaps you need to get her spayed—I’ve heard that helps to prevent wandering?”
“She is spayed. But now that you mention it, I haven’t taken her to the vet for a check-up since I got her. That might be a good idea. Muesli’s my first cat, you see,” I explained. “I’ve always been more of a dog person, really.”
“Me too,” said Mrs Waltham. “Our previous housekeeper, Mrs Hicks, has a feisty Jack Russell Terrier and I met him a few times when she had him with her out and about in town. He’s such a little character.” She brightened. “Actually, now that I think about it, Mrs Hicks mentioned that her vet is very good. It’s the one just around the corner from here—North Oxford Veterinary Surgery.”